


A New Distraction: Stumble

by Spadesjade



Series: Tom and Michelle [9]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesjade/pseuds/Spadesjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Michelle go out with Tom's friends, and Michelle walks a tipsy Tom home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Distraction: Stumble

Thursday night, Tom gathered his closest friends at his favorite pub. He wanted to introduce me to some of the most important people in his life, and it had been too long for him since he'd gotten to spend time with his private crowd. The only famous people there were Ben and his wife Sophie. They had a sitter for the little one, and were more than happy to get out. 

It was a blur for me -- socializing was all right but it drained me. I could hardly remember half the conversations I had, less than half the names, except for the really important ones. It was easy to see that Tom cared deeply about his friends, and valued that with them, he was just another guy. Nobody special.

The most difficult thing about socializing for me was the level of energy it required. I was an introvert -- not necessarily shy, given the right circumstances, but my energy came from within, rather than getting it from others. I suspected Tom was like that, too, although sometimes it was hard to determine, because he did like attention. He liked it a lot more than I ever had.

Tom hardly let go of me the entire night. This was the third or fourth party I'd been to with him, so I was used to his routine, but he was a bit more clingy than I expected. He never let me alone for long on a regular basis, but I wound up spending seventy percent of the night wrapped in the curve of his arm, either pressed against his chest or to his side.

By eleven o'clock, everyone was getting ready to leave. They all had workaday jobs, and had to be up at a reasonable hour, even if tomorrow was Friday. Sitters had to be paid, hangovers had to be anticipated, and a decent night's rest had to be achieved. I stood by the bar, my back against Tom's chest, his arm around my waist, after the last hug had been given and the tab paid. 

Truthfully, I was more than exhausted. I was drained. Empty. If the floor had been decent I would have laid down then and there.

"Come on, darling, we've gotta get you back to your hotel," he murmured in my ear when my head drifted back to rest on his shoulder.

Tom had had a brilliant time. I could tell by the fact that his smile was particularly wide, his eyes still shimmering. But now that it was over, his wobble was coming from a bit more than fatigue.

"How much Guinness did you drink?" I teased as we headed out of the pub and made our way to the taxi stand.

Tom shrugged. "I'm fine. Not fit to drive, but I'm okay. Still buzzed, though," he admitted, running the hand that was not attached to mine through his sweaty curls. Curls that would be gone in the morning, I realized.

"Well, I'm going to take you home," I declared. "We'll walk -- it'll clear your head. And I'll call a cab from your place."

"No, Michelle, I'm--" he started to protest, but I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

"I'm a bit buzzed, too. Not as much as you, apparently, but I could use the air. And it's not that far to your house, the route is safe, right?"

He nodded, sighed, let me have my way. "Truthfully," he murmured, pulling our entwined fingers up to his lips and pecking mine tenderly, "being around you in this inhibited state -- or rather, uninhibited -- I'm just trying to protect your virtue."

"What, you're in enough of your own head," I chastised. 

"Last time I was like this I groped you," he said.

"And do you plan to do it again?" I teased.

"Hmmm..." He eyed me, but kept those fingers to himself. "No but sometimes with you, I don't know. When I tickled you earlier today your knickers got all in a twist."

"I wasn't angry--" I started to protest, then stopped. It had happened that morning. He snuck up behind me and before I knew it his hands were nearly under my armpits, making their way down my ribcage. I nearly screamed and shoved him away so hard it had startled us both. And then I'd had to explain.

"No shame in it, darling," Tom said, tugging me closer. "Lots of people have tickling as a sexual kink. I just wonder what others you have lurking around that you can't tell me about. Or maybe don't even know about," he added slyly.

I had picked up copying his arching eyebrow, but I doubted I was anywhere near as devastating as him when I used it. Still, it didn't stop me. 

Of course, we were suddenly derailed by the fact that his long foot abruptly hit a cobblestone, and since he was paying more attention to flirting with me than where he put his foot, he nearly went face down on the concrete. I was jerked forward a few feet but then I pulled back, steadying him, pulling him into my side.

"You okay?" I asked, my arm going around his slender waist. I could feel that he was trembling, slightly.

"Yeah, fine," he said, wiping his brow with his other hand. The hand I had been clutching now settled along my shoulders. "You okay?" he asked.

"Right as rain. How many beers did you drink?"

"There may have been a shot or two involved," he murmured, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. "But I felt fine. I know when I'm legless and this isn't it."

I chuckled at his slang. "Appropriate word since you almost fell arse over tit."

He popped one eye open and smiled at me. "You're learning," he teased.

"Come on, only a few more blocks." We went on for a bit longer, and then stopped at a particularly long light. Tom stood behind me, helping us both keep warm in the cool night air, and I felt his fingers on my neck.

It wasn't a big deal at first, but then I realized the tips of his fingers were scraping up and down my skin on the slope of my neck, and everything suddenly lit up in a yellow haze and my entire skin screamed for him to stop.

Drawing a breath and begging myself for some control, I took a step forward, moving out from under him. Of course, this nearly put me at the curb, and Tom, thinking I was trying to cross prematurely, let go of my neck and seized both my shoulders, dragging me back.

"What are you doing? Trying to give me a bloody heart attack!" he yelped.

"Sorry," I said. "Must have drifted off there."

"How much did *you?* drink?" he asked me with a scowl, turning me to face him.

"I had a few glasses of wine, I'm not a beer drinker," I said. I didn't want to tell him. He was already concerned about my sensitivity and I didn't want him to worry every time he touched me. So I just smiled apologetically and he relented.

"Damn, missed the light," he sighed, looking over my head. Then he shook himself. "Well, that adrenaline helped to sober me up a bit, anyway."

"I'm sorry," I whispered. Admittedly, I was putting on a bit of a show. A jutting bottom lip. Looking down at my shoes. Sad eyes. Not too much to seem fake, I was careful. But then I also felt guilty -- it was a harmless manipulation, but a manipulation nonetheless. And then I reminded myself it was no worse than any of the adorable tricks he'd pulled to soften me up. Fair was fair.

He reached up, sliding his hand around my neck -- exactly what I had been trying to avoid. He pulled me closer to him with a wicked little grin and said, "Well, I guess if I had to wait all night on a street corner...." Then he kissed me, very lightly but slowly, his fingers dragging up into my hair toward that spot on my neck, and then, to my relief, down along the very top of my spine.

I had already wrapped my arms around his waist. His slenderness often made me tempted to see how far around I could get, if my hands would fit into the opposing pockets. Then my hand caught on the edge of his shirt, and my fingers wound up finding the warmth of his back. It was a temptation I knew I should have resisted, but I told myself one little touch wasn't going to lead us doing it against the exterior wall behind us. 

Having taken extensive anatomy classes during my college years, I knew all the muscles of the back. The latissimus dorsi were the ones along your ribs, extending back to your spine. Both the internal and external oblique muscles were just below those, toward the outside, above the hip. I immediately felt his flex in an effort to retract from my fingertips, and heard his hissing intake of breath.

"God, please don't do that," he said, his voice a high-pitched whisper. 

"And you complain I'm hypersensitve," I said, shifting my hand so the pads of my fingers, and not the edges of my fingernails, lay against his skin. He immediately let out his breath.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," he said, reaching around and taking my other hand in his. "You've been getting manicures since we started dating. Sometimes I wonder if you're a sadist."

I couldn't help my wicked smirk. "Sorry, usually I try to be a good girl. But you have those moments, too...when I just want to touch you. And then I get reminded of how...." I trailed off, unable to find the right word. 

"Enticing? Tempting? Alluring you are?" Tom supplied.

"Which is funny, because before you the thought of a guy looking at me sexually just made me feel like a piece of meat." Then a thought occurred to me. "Do you ever feel that way? About how people look at you?"

"What, that they look at me sexually?" A soft blush started on his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck, a nervous gesture. "Well...um...I don't...I don't know."

I cocked my eyebrow. "You know," I deadpanned.

He cleared his throat. "Well, it isn't the same...I mean, I guess I just have a different outlook. I just find it flattering, you know? We men and our egos," he ended with a chuckle. Which also sounded nervous.

"So all those girls on Tumblr talking about your--"

"Please don't finish that sentence." He shut his eyes. "Truthfully, most of the time, I don't think about it. Someone finding you attractive, I think, is an enormous compliment. Someone wanting to...be intimate---"

"Fuck you," I supplied.

"Well, yes, whatever you want to call it, it's flattering, to a point. But I know if I think about it too much my head is going to become so inflated that I won't be able to walk through a doorway -- or I'll be utterly creeped out at some of their fantasies. I mean, roleplaying is fine to an extent, but..." He shook his head, looked at me in the eyes. "Either way, for good or ill, it's usually more about the other person than me. So I try to keep separated from it."

"And if you weren't Tom Hiddleston, sex-god?"

He barked a laugh. "That phrase -- I am not a sex-god, for heaven's sake!" He flung out his arms, but he was still smiling. "I am me, whether I'm famous or nobody knows me. No difference."

"There's a difference," I said. "Attention makes a difference."

His hands threaded through his curls. "Michelle, how did we...I mean, is this conversation going somewhere? What do you want me to say?"

I blinked. I hadn't intended it to go this way, honestly. But it had just happened. And I didn't know what I wanted out of it. "I guess I just...I think about how much of you I have to share with everyone else. And I wonder how much of that you enjoy, more than you enjoy being with me. Considering we aren't in a physical relationship. Yes, I'm being insecure, I'm sorry," I sighed, stepping away. "This isn't the time or place--"

I had turned. He snaked his arms around my waist and pulled me back against his chest. His chin rested on my shoulder. "The good news is, you get points for realizing it," he murmured. "Don't be jealous of them because they want me. They aren't going to get me. No matter how much they might want it. I'm with you."

"I wasn't trying to be smug about it," I whispered. 

"I'm with you," he whispered back. "I'm not going anywhere. Say it."

"You're with me," I obeyed. "You're not going anywhere."

"But when the day does come," he said, his voice taking on a different tone, "I think both of us will have to promise not to get too crazy...at least not all at once." And I caught his smirk out of the corner of my eye.

I twitched.

"And," he added, his voice mellowing, "you know not everything is about sex, believe it or not."

"I know. I have to learn the difference."

"It's not that you don't know the difference, its that you're not used to certain things," he reasoned. "But actually, I kind of like that. I'd rather have you be oversensitive than insensitive."

"Now who's the sadist?"

The light turned -- it was the third pass since we'd started standing there -- and we finally crossed that street. When we reached the front door, I gave him a pouty face. 

"Will you call me a cab?"

He was more sober now, but there was a slight sheen of perspiration on his forehead. It made his curls cling to his skin adorably. "Sure." He pulled out his keys and made to unlock his door but I pulled him back.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"It's wearing off. You?"

"Mostly. But I'd rather wait out here. The night air, the sounds." I pulled him closer. "I like it."

"We can wait in the backyard," Tom suggested.

We had spent a few hours in his backyard, but not at night -- we hadn't had the chance. After Tom called the taxi, we snuggled up in his lounger, which was wide enough for both of us without overlapping too much. As I settled in to wait for the taxi, which would take at least twenty minutes or more at this time of night, I curled up against him, my knees pressed against his thigh, his arm around me-- and then, abruptly, my back started to itch.

Not just itch. It was in that one spot that I could never, ever reach. Just behind my armpit, just outside of my shoulder blade, the bane of my existence. It was usually caused by wearing a bra for too long. But I tried to ignore it.

I tried.

Tom noticed my squirming. "What's wrong?"

I sighed. And I told him. "My back itches."

"Where?"

"On this side," I gestured outside, on my right, away from him. "And I can't reach it."

"Well, you have to let me help you. This is one of those non-sexual things we talked about."

"Still isn't wise," I hedged, but the itch, as it usually happened when I tried to ignore it, got worse. I tugged down my bra in the back, hoping that would help.

"Come on, I promise, just a quick scratch," Tom said. "Tell me where it is."

Unable to stand it, I directed him. Very gingerly, his hand went up the back of my shirt and toward that spot. I nearly whimpered when he descended on exactly the right place. A shudder of pleasure passed through me.

"Harder," I urged.

Tom chuckled. "Okay, remember this is non-sexual."

"Screw sex. If you scratched my back every night before I went to bed I would still love you forever." I stretched my arm, widening the surface area. "A bit higher."

He obeyed. "Is this a usual thing for you?"

"Yes, unfortunately. Stupid bra."

"You should get a back-scratcher."

"It's on another continent. And I have one now. You're pretty good at this."

"Funny, considering how short my fingernails are."

"Remember, it's not the size, it's how you use it."

His reply was to pinch me. I giggled, and then groaned when he stopped, but instead ran his finger across the area.

"I don't want to overdo it," he said. "You're already a bit warm."

I sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Besides, the cab will be here any minute." I reached up, pecked his lips. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Just ask."


End file.
